What Happens When Daddy Screws Up
by cursethemoon
Summary: A stressed and overworked Lestrade forgets his daughter at Baker St. after passing on files for Sherlock to muse over. Unable to collect her - John & Sherlock, both in the midst of solving a high-profile case are left to babysit...Fun.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Just an idea. I love Lestrade. And I thought Sherlock + John with a child is a godsend for muse. I don't know if there _is _slash here. If there is, it must be natural chemistry since I certainly don't intend it to be one.

* * *

><p>John had an inkling that Sherlock was going to be shooting the wall again.<p>

Thus why he crossed off getting new wallpaper off from his to-do list. Sherlock always seemed to be taking something out of random, inanimate objects – unfortunately for their dear living room wall, it seemed to be the detective's favourite. John had tried to spare the poor surface by attempting to hide the gun but he never _seemed _to locate it. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes had an invisible _gun compartment_ that John had not found yet. He would. But he still went with the idea that it was probably invisible considering he had combed through the _whole bloody flat…_

"_Stop _making that noise, John. It's horrendously off-putting." said the voice from the lump on the couch as John entered from the kitchen.

He paused and blinked, "I haven't said anything, Sherlock."

"You don't have to." The voice pronounced, annoyed.

"Sorry…I'll…try and keep silent again…"

John had to roll his eyes, knowing he supposed that Sherlock's recent spell of even _worse _behaviour had resonated from Lestrade's latest case. It was a murder – or rather _murders _for the whole family was killed… Sherlock had been attempting to make sense of it for twenty four hours now and had not conjured up anything. It was made even worse by the fact that the family had connections to the government and Lestrade thought it best for him not to be anywhere _near _the murder site…

To be honest, if Sherlock couldn't figure it out – John was not sure what he could do to help. Just to keep Sherlock away from potentially harming himself of course. He was the type of bloke you wouldn't trust with a bloody _sharpie _when he was in one of his rages. Fortunately, the detective seemed to be enticed by a mood of serenity.

John rather liked the peace. He had done all sorts of things that he would have never done if Sherlock had been… _Sherlock. _Watering the flowers… watching a few episodes of _Countdown_…

Christ. He was turning into a woman.

It was here that John heard the door open from downstairs. Normally it was the noise that would be overlooked but with the silence – it was loud.

"Sherlock! John!" Lestrade's voice boomed as he trampled up the steps.

Sherlock immediately rose. John followed, watching as Lestrade – flushed – entered through the door in his usual gear of things,

"More evidence, I presume?" Sherlock greeted dryly.

"_Yes. _I've got some more things to give you," Lestrade nodded, gesturing towards a large brown envelope he held in one hand, "Some more evidence... not got much time – "

"No need." The detective intervened again, "I've _solved _it. It is the _brother _in law. I _couldn't _believe I did not see it from the beginning! But after twelve hours–"

"Twenty four." John corrected, prompting the detective to glance back at him,

"That long?"

"Yes."

"How, odd." Sherlock mused before continuing, "Anyway… I'm certain– "

A sigh escaped the detective inspector's lips,

"It's not the _brother in law_, Sherlock." Lestrade dismissed, clearly disappointed by the incorrect presumption.

"Why not?" Sherlock seemed to gawp, plainly unfamiliar with the idea of his suggestions being written off so swiftly.

"He's dead."

John blinked, _completely _taken aback. Even if Sherlock may deny it – he was too. The doctor rubbed the side of his head with a rather distressed press of the lips,

"God. That's terrible. I mean, that's _what_? The fifth death now? As if the family..." He glanced at Sherlock who seemed to be absorbing very little of what John was saying,

"Yes, it _is _terrible. Because that's another witness down!" Sherlock said harshly, jaw clamping in a disgruntled fashion, "_Death. _Ugh."

"He was strangled." Lestrade offered.

"Ouch," John winced, feeling his neck tighten a little from the word, "Dreadful."

Sherlock seemed to give him a confused look, "Why look so _dismayed _John? The others were strangled _as well_. Murderers... no originality sometimes." He said pointedly as John rolled his eyes. The detective ignored the doctor's face and continued,

"And to think. This case should progress more smoothly if I was given access to the _scene _itself." Sherlock sighed, "I cannot _work _on photographs alone. It is the _details _that holds the secret to a case. I need _details_..."

"I know that," Lestrade breathed out. He looked a bit ill, John observed. But due to the sheer calibre of the case, he wasn't surprised. "I have _tried, _Sherlock. But it's a sensitive case – only authorized personnel –"

"_Authorized_?" Sherlock laughed out loud, hand flailing in the air tribally, "I am the _only _person who may solve this case and I cannot be _authorized_?"

Lestrade pressed his lips thinly, "Now… I've got a _team _on this too, its –"

"And how is _that _going?" Sherlock challenged, "I _saw _the conference yesterday. Call me _vigilant_, but there was not a lot there."

He was referring to the _team _in charge. Sherlock and John had watched the televised conference yesterday of which Sherlock had candidly pointed out that the team looked like a bunch of criminology students.

Donovan had been there. Sherlock had chuckled, _"The mother hen to the headless chickens, John. This is far too satisfying. Record this please." _

Defeated, Lestrade sighed and handed the brown envelope to Sherlock who just eyed him coldly. Letting the envelope hover for a few moments, John snatched it – giving Lestrade a small nod,

"We'll take a look at it."

"Yes, _John _will." Sherlock said, mockingly, "I am certain that should go swimmingly."

John rolled his eyes, "For _Christ _sake, Sherlock. Stop acting like a _child._" He was throwing his toys out of the pram like a bloody baby! John had forgotten how immature Sherlock was sometimes.

"Oh so you take _their _side?"

"No!" John sighed, "It is _wrong _you can't be there. But you can't just _mope _about."

Lestrade seemed to recoil in frustration,

"Look… I've got the _whole _bloody department on this case… _government_'s got me on a _leash_…I can't even – Hold on."

The sound of a mobile reverberated and Lestrade took his phone out and answered it grimly.

"Lestrade…yes – _yes _sir…hold on – I'll get there in – yes, I _know _you told me nine but I had an emerge – yes, sir. _Yes_," Lestrade was growing more and more frustrated. Sherlock had retreated back onto the couch, seizing the envelope from John's fingers in the process.

Crossing his arms, John thought the meeting was over. Until Lestrade seemed to move aside and he heard another voice,

"Daddy," the voice said with a small, rueful sigh, "I really need the _toilet_…"

* * *

><p>There was a <em>child <em>in the flat. Or rather a small, young girl. John gazed at her, eyes wide. She was about seven – blonde and was tapping her foot on the wooden floor at a steady rhythm. Her eyes were staring hypnotically at the screen of her _Blackberry. _Instantly, John recognized how the very sight of the two did not piece together.

"-understood, sir... yes sir. _Bye." _Lestrade quickly pocketed his mobile and glanced at the young girl vehemently. John noted him mouthing a few _swear words_ as he forced a smile on his face.

"I thought I told you to stay in the bloody car!" The detective inspector hissed, smile disappearing as he urged the girl with a mutter.

"I _couldn't_!" The young girl snapped back, looking up at him in an equally harsh tone, "I _need _the toilet."

John found a small smile prying his lips open, "_Wait_," He regarded Lestrade with a playful look, "_Daddy_?" He didn't know Lestrade had kids! The girl looked nothing like him. Parting from of course the same glum look they had on,

Lestrade glared at John, gravely, "_Yes_…this is…my daughter, Gracie –"

"_Grace_, dad." The girl corrected, with a roll of her eyes. Lestrade seemed to stare at her, dumbfounded before exhaling,

"Sorry, _Grace_ – "

"So, what is it '_take your daughter to work' _day or something?" John poked, eyeing the girl curiously, "Isn't it a bit… you _are _on a murder case Lestrade…it's a bit…" Inappropriate?

Lestrade's face seemed to only grow more dismal,

"Obviously, John it wasn't intentional. _That _was the emergency – my wife –_ ex _wife…" The detective inspector rubbed his eyes wearily, "was in labour. Gracie – _Grace_ sort of got dropped on my doorstep…unexpectedly…"

John couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the man. Not only had he got the government on his arse – he also had a child. Well, _children. _If one counted Sherlock.

"Didn't you tell her -?" John asked, "You know…that it wasn't a good time…"

"Oh _yeah_. She's having _bloody _contractions. Of _course _she'll stop for a cuppa and listen to me…" Lestrade sighed, scratching his head stressfully, "I _told _her. But women…what are they like…"

"Fair enough." John nodded before eyeing the girl – who was still zealously ogling her blackberry screen, "Nice to meet you Grace. I'm John." John's own experience with children only came as far as when children came in to the surgery. It was all very traumatic and really, they were his least favourite patients…

It seemed that children nowadays knew what needles looked like. No amount of saying that they were some magical princess-related _apparatus _could ever soothe the infuriating cries.

The girl did not flinch. John supposed she may have not heard him.

"You can use our bathroom. It's just upstairs, on your right." John suggested watching the young girl's face snap up instantaneously. She darted off towards the indicated direction with a feverish need.

He eyed Lestrade bleakly, forcing an awkward smile. It was here that John remembered something,

"Oh! _Grace_! Make sure you don't touch any _scalpels_ okay?" For _lord in heaven_, Sherlock left those things _everywhere_.

Lestrade's jaw seemed to bob open before his phone's ring tone echoed through the room again. "Sod." He sighed, glaring at the screen in realization of the number. John watched as Lestrade looked up at him to be excused,

"Do you mind-?"

"Nope. Go on." John nodded politely. Lestrade exited the room to answer the call privately.

Pivoting around, John almost forgot that Sherlock was in the couch just a few metres from him. Approaching the large piece of furniture calmly, he inclined his head,

"Sherlock -?" He called out, only to realize that Sherlock had the envelope literally _covering _the whole of his face.

Not receiving an answer, John deduced that Sherlock was ignoring him.

And that was when he heard the soft, sturdy breaths of a _sleeping _man. Sherlock was – _napping_? In the middle of the _case? _No way! John blinked, examining the man further and deciding that he was indeed –

_Sleeping_.

Surely, that wasn't possible. But perhaps the frustration and the tiredness finally overwhelmed him.

"Christ, Sherlock. I thought you were the man of timing," John mused, shaking his head as he sat on the couch across, picking up the newspaper on the table, "But perhaps sleeping shall help you…think, _eh_?"

Opening the paper, the man couldn't help but smile.

Now he was talking to himself. _Hell._

Sherlock really was rubbing off on him.

* * *

><p>Reaching the sports column, John found himself gawping silently at the new signing at <em>Aston Villa. <em>What were they _thinking_? And for _that _much? The bloke couldn't take a penalty even if it was placed a step in front of him! Affronted, he turned a page – once more indulged in the countdown to the Olympic games.

Of course, he was only being pissy because he didn't get tickets.

It was here, as he was beaming at himself and gazing over the news of _Formula 1_ that he heard a voice disturb the silence,

"Where did my Daddy go?"

Lowering the newspaper, John found his eyes turning into wide circles as he stared at Grace who had her own eyes large as she gazed around the quiet room.

"I was only gone for a few minutes," Grace explained, "Where did he go?"

John had to prioritize. Help the child. _Not to piss of Sherlock. _Nothing was worse than Sherlock getting disturbed in his sleep. He would _know. _

His _laptop _would know. It now possessed the scars to prove it.

"Just a second…" John murmured, pressing a finger to his lips before getting up and mutely coming over to her. Fortunately, she seemed to understand and she quietened – but the anxiety remained on her face.

"I'm sure he's just outside." He assured the young girl quickly - unsure _how _the hell he could have forgotten. It must have been the newspaper. He was so easily engrossed. Poking his head outside, he began to scale - with his eyes - the flights of stairs and listened out for Lestrade's voice.

There was only silence.

"He's not there, is he?" Grace's voice seemed to utter as she retreated back into the room.

"_I _- He wouldn't - He wouldn't _forget _you...he _must _still be here," John said, flushing - almost identical to the state that he had seen her father in earlier, "I'll just look outside - "

"He's forgotten." The girl declared, "He almost _did _that this morning."

"He _forgot _you this morning?"

"Yeah, Daddy's like that." Grace nodded at John with no sign of annoyance whatsoever, "He's especially forgetful today. I think it's cause _Mummy _was real mean to him today. Called him _Gregory Alan_ because he almost refused to let me into the house..."

She seemed to giggle at the memory, "Mummy called him an _imbecile _and lots of other funny, _bad _words. Daddy sort of cried a bit..."

John was a little bit out of breath from the expression on the girl's face. The concern had faded - now she just seemed entirely at peace. John would put down that Lestrade probably _wasn't _the forgetful type (such a trait would be horrendous for a Detective Inspector) - but the stress of the murder case must have pressed down on his brain a little too hard. Plus, he probably hadn't retained much sleep.

At least Sherlock had a bit of a gap in between to catch up. He didn't know Lestrade an awful lot - but John speculated that like any human being, one's mind couldn't function well without rest.

"I'll _BBM_ him, just to tell him - oh _darnit_, my phone's out of battery!" The girl gasped, clearly more distressed by the idea that her phone was dead rather than the fact that she was alone in some stranger's flat.

John held up his own phone. It looked bloody ancient compared to hers. "I'll tell him, don't worry." He nodded, glancing down at his phone and fumbling with the keys:

**_Sent: [09:14] Lestrade_**

_Forgot something? _

"I'm sure he'll be on his way to pick you up in a - oh, he's texted me back." John glanced down at the illuminated message on his phone,

**_From: [09:15] Lestrade_**

_Shit, John._

John scoffed. Grace inclined her head at him,

"What did he say?"

Best not, John. "Oh... nothing. He seems to have sent me an empty message. Better just text him again," John lied, watching the girl shrug, "I'll just...your Daddy's not very good with phones is he?"

"No, he's like a neanderthal." Grace rolled her bright eyes softly, "I still have to _show _him how to download apps. He's ridiculous."

John smiled before his phone vibrated and another message appeared,

**_From: [09:17] Lestrade_**

_Imsorry. I cnt type vry well at the mment. I had t leave emergncy at crim scen. She slipd my mind. On the motorwya to bloddy Yorkshire. i cnt belive i forgot my own daughter. tell her i'm sorry._

Yorkshire? John blinked, typing a reply instantly:

_**Sent: [09:18] Lestrade**_

_Yorkshire? Lestrade. She's getting pretty worried here. I suggest you pick her up._

**_From: [09:18] Lestrade_**

_I cnt. i'm too fr away. is she okay? telll her im sorry again. i just BBM'd her. i thnk her phone might b dead. ive got the fuckng commisioner callng me nonstop. i dont know who i cn send to take hr home_

"What is he saying?" Grace demanded, pouting.

"I'll - just wait a second. He says sorry..."

"Not a good sign." The girl commented wryly.

**_Sent: [09:18] Lestrade_**

_You're not suggesting, what I think you're suggesting. Right?_

**_From: [09:20] Lestrade_**

_trust m. if it wsnt fr an emrgncy i would nt be suggesting it. please, jst for an hour or two. i'll get someone down thre promise. i'm being hassled off the phone nw._

Glancing at the young girl dismally, John could not help but feel the urge to tell her honestly what was happening. She would understand. He had a feeling she sort of knew already. He really shouldn't be doing this. But Lestrade was miles away now. He couldn't just _cast _the kid out.

"Grace. I'm afraid, he's sort of... on his way to something really important."

"Figured." The girl shrugged, "Then where do I go?"

"Um, well. _Here._" John said limply, watching the girl's eyes go wide.

"But I want to go to Mummy." Grace seemed to sigh, crossing her arms, "I can't just stay _here_...I don't even know you!"

"True. But I'm... I'm a friend of your dad's," John said, forcing a smile, "It'll only be for an hour anyway..." _God forbid_, "Not long."

Eyes placing themselves on his phone screen, John decided that perhaps Sherlock would be asleep for another hour and they should all be safe.

**_Sent: [09:24] Lestrade_**

_Fine. _

_**_From: [09:25] Lestrade_**_

__Thank you, John. I owe you. Take care of her, please. __

__And also, keep him away from her. __

**_Sent: [09:25] Lestrade_**

_Who?_

_**_From: [09:26] Lestrade_**_

__You know who.__

Smirking a little, John glanced at the young girl who stood, ogling him from head-to-toe. Clearly, she was checking he wasn't some insane serial killer or something. He was quite the opposite actually. But he wasn't sure how much she knew of her dad's line of work.

"So, I guess you're stuck with me for an hour, Grace." He stated, putting on his best _doctor Watson _smile. Unfortunately, the smile was a bit patronizing and the girl noticed.

"I suppose." The girl seemed to breath outwardly, stuffing her phone away in her bag.

John eyed her, knowing instantly why the hell it was he avoided the talk of children like the plague. And why, him and Sarah always made sure they were as _careful _as nature would allow them.

For they could end up with pint-sized headaches like these.

"So, what do you do for fun, Mr. James?"

"John." He cleared his throat stiffly, "It's John."

"Oh, oops sorry," She giggled, "_John. _Mr. John. What do you do for fun Mr. John?"

As a child, John Watson had been a scientific dork. Thus why, he never really had an idea what it was fellow children did for fun in his day. That just meant that now - he was even more clueless. _Bloody fantastic_...

"I've got some more _Countdown _episodes on the box." John suggested lamely.

Grace seemed to look at him like he had grown a massive _mole _on his face. John just felt himself feeling _belittled. _He was being degraded by a _child. _

"You weren't serious were you?" She asked him, worried.

John exhaled, watching her expression with glazed eyes. "Er - _no?_" Grace giggled at his face again. John just blinked, feeling like he was a century old.

Heck. This was going to be a long day. And Sherlock wasn't even awake yet.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **So, how will Sherlock fare when he wakes up? I'm certain he's going to be thrilled by the appearance of a child!

Yes, I was being sarcastic.


	2. Chapter 2

A _pickle_, as his Mum used to say. John was in a_ pickle._

He was meant to _amuse _a child for an hour (which was an indefinite fact - as if to make matters even _more _unsavoury) and he had no bloody experience with children whatsoever. Perhaps it would have been better if Grace was aged a few months or something.

It was either a diaper change or a feed. _Easy. _Now that she was past that - what the _hell _did kids do? In John's day, _marbles _was still a craze.

Damn. Now he felt like that 'uncool' dad at the birthday party… _do kids still say cool?...Are they still called kids? Aren't they 'tweens' now?_

"Can I watch TV?" Grace proposed as they entered back the flat.

A little distractedly, John nodded, "Yeah - sure." _Oh wait. _He held up a hand as she approached the living room, "Actually - no... no you can't." Sherlock would be disturbed _instantly._ Although he would love to have said yes - Sherlock's sleeping arrangement also remained a priority.

Because as long as Sherlock Holmes snoozed - the sanity level of the flat was _relatively_ liveable.

The girl frowned before smiling again to indicate a new idea, "Do you have music here?"

"No." John blinked wearily, "We can't really listen to the radio - my flatmate is sort of _sleeping_. So..." He gazed awkwardly at the blonde whose face looked just about as crestfallen as they came, "_can't _do anything that would make noise."

Grace sighed deeply at him. John knew. She must think he was a right kill-joy. Kill-Joy _Johnny. _Didn't that sound familiar?

"Well, what do you want me to do?" She said with a miniscule quiver of the lips, "_Sit _here and stare at your wall?"

_Please do._ John blinked then chuckled, tone remaining hushed. "You'll be surprised at how _fun _it is. My flatmate does it to concentrate." He nodded lamely, glancing at the girl whose face was screwed up in innocent thought. Plainly, his try at manipulating her failed miserably.

"I don't think I want to do that though." She murmured.

"Yeah. I sort of... thought that."

John knew that it was his turn to suggest something. _Just anything, Watson. _Glancing brusquely around the flat, he tried to pick out something from the hills of random mess. There _must _be something -

"Uh, I've got some old board games up my room I can bring down." John suggested, obviously uncertain. He had expected his attempt to be _sneered _at as he doubted kids did board games nowadays (didn't they have _playstations _or whatever?) but pleasantly, a flush of joy came over the little girl's face.

"Sure, I love board games." Grace grinned widely, swaying with energy.

"You do?" _Good god, you're a genius John._

The small girl continued to nod. John managed a genuine smile deciding the girl was probably just relieved that he found something they _could _do. He nodded. _That makes two of us... _Eyeing the couch, he glanced back at Grace with a kind smile,

"Don't move. I'll be back down in a minute, okay?" She smiled back up at him.

John smoothed the front of his shirt in habit. He then made his way up the stairs to his room.

_Challenge number two: Find the old board games. _Unfortunately for John, the board games were probably all still stuck in the boxes that Harry had sent over. He had laughed when he found out that his sister had sent him some _fun things to do_ and had forgotten all about the boxes entirely. Now, he felt like worshipping the very ground Harriet Watson_ walked_ on.

Maybe beneath all that innuendo-corrupted pretentiousness dwelled a _prophet._

Either way she bloody saved his balls, to put it _mildly._

* * *

><p>"Wow." John murmured wiping sweat from his brow as he glanced at the box labelled '<em>Johnny's Playthings' - <em>there were a _lot _of board games in there. He hadn't even realized she had sent him so many! Or rather _he _had owned so many. It made him wonder briefly why he never used them. Perhaps it was because the only person to play a game with was Sherlock.

And he would probably sweep over a game of _Guess Who _in thirty seconds - _completely _defeating the objective of _fun _in a game. After all, guessing games were Sherlock's all time-favourite. That meant he would eliminate any form of competition in it - not that anyone _could _compete with him, John supposed.

There were other games. But Sherlock liked _mind games_ and the mind games _he _was used to were definitely not in board game form yet. _Thank God._

It was here, as John was tapping his cheek and deciding _which _game he should bring down that his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket.

Muttering a little and still running through the titles in his head, brown eyes gazed over the screen:

**_From: [09:42] Sherlock H._**

_Come to the living room - SH._

It took a few long moments before it registered in John's mind that Sherlock was now awake.

Choosing 'reply' he was in the middle of typing up a response when it dawned on him the futility of that action. In a slight panic, John scooped up the box in his arms and thundered down the short flight of stairs.

* * *

><p>"Mr. John's upstairs."<p>

"Thank you. I am aware."

The tone of Sherlock's voice was a clear indication that he had not woken up on the _right _side of bed. In fact, the only word to describe his tone was: _pissy. _It was _pissy _and Grace definitely did not need to bear the brunt of _any _of it.

She was _much _too young for that.

Entering the living room, John lowered the box - low enough to see Grace sitting on the couch across Sherlock who had not bothered to acknowledge his presence in the room at all. _Normal_, really. Shrugging that off, he checked that the little girl was still in one piece before letting the box slip onto the floor entirely.

"Nice nap?" John attempted, watching as the detective turned towards him - eyes dull and vacant.

"Satisfactory." Sherlock responded with equal wryness, eyes flicking towards their tiny visitor. John thought that to be his cue to explain. He wandered into the scene, giving Grace a small smile,

"Sherlock, this is Grace," the man said kindly, trying to keep the awkwardness in his voice to a minimal, "she's -"

"Lestrade's daughter." Sherlock finished prompting a small, surprised look to form on John's features. A look that he was very used to actually. He opened his mouth to ask but decided against it.

But then Sherlock threw the answer _right _in his face.

Catching the flying object with his right hand, John blinked as he identified it as a wallet. No prize for guessing whose. His eyes were drawn to the single photograph in the transparent slot. It was clearly a birthday party scene in the background with DI Lestrade carrying a much younger Grace in the middle. The normally austere looking man was grinning. Perfect little photo, actually.

_Lestrade smiling_, John mused, _that's a rarity. _Lestrade always looked to have a headache of some sort. Today, it looked more like a migraine.

"How did you get this?" John asked, guiltily shutting it and chucking it back at him.

"I told you that I pickpocket him when he's annoying." Sherlock sighed, observing the object, "He was especially aggravating today."

It was only now that it dawned on John that Grace was sitting right next to him. "Was that Daddy?" She asked. John blinked and glanced at Sherlock for support. The detective was - as per norm - unhelpful and John couldn't lie,

"Yes, it was. I think... I think he dropped it when he left." Well, maybe John could lie a little.

"Sounds like Daddy." Grace nodded with a wide smile, before her eyes seemed to pivot back onto Sherlock, "Mr. John, who is he? He doesn't want to talk much…"

John considered her question for a moment and thought it'd be best for Sherlock to introduce himself. Giving him a few seconds to do so and receiving nothing, John knew it was his turn - _again_,

"Uh, Grace. This is Sherlock Holmes. My flatmate. And - he works with your dad," John nodded watching the girl seemed to brighten up at the very prospect, "He helps him in cases -"

"Because your father is _pathetic_," Sherlock commented dryly, progressing on to lie back down on the couch - head propped on the arm. Grey eyes then swivelled towards the young girl, "Fortunately for you, I'm sure your mother's genetics could make up for the deficit..."

For the whole of that, John was sure he would have thrown something at Sherlock if he had not decided that displaying violence would be inappropriate. The young girl was looking a tad offended. Agreeably.

"Why are you mad at Daddy for?" She asked quickly, "He's not pathetic."

The defensiveness forced John to smile. Sherlock's nonchalant features remained as he overlooked her statement with a breath.

"Best not waste your words on him, Grace," John nodded smiling as he intruded, "He doesn't listen - _Sherlock_, Lestrade sort of asked us for a favour to take care of her..." _I didn't have a choice in the matter, mind you._

"He forgot her, didn't he?" Sherlock drawled dutifully, eyes flickering shut.

John cleared his throat and nodded, "Yes. There was an emergency in _Yorkshire_ or something. I -"

"I cannot offer him a favour when he rejects mine," Sherlock said, waving the idea off with a bony hand, "Hypocrisy."

"Actually, he asked _me. _Not you." John corrected. There was a deep, stiff silence before Sherlock interrupted with a -

"_Good._" Sherlock's eyelids lifted and John found himself locking eyes with the sleep-deprived consulting detective. "Then perhaps you may escort her out of the flat."

"Escort?" John questioned, arching a brow.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, positively taken aback by the rapid decline John's understanding seemed to be undergoing. "Would _cast out_ appeal more to your vocabulary?" He articulated with a bashful leer.

A severe expression fell over John's face. "I _can't _do that!" He inhaled through his nose loudly, scratching his head in thought, "Cast her out of the _flat_? She's a bloody child, Sherlock. _Can't _just kick her out." The last few words were mouthed. Grace had fled his side and had now progressed on to scour through the box of games.

Turning his eyes back onto his curly haired flatmate, John noted a similar indignation on Sherlock's face.

"You are _far _too dramatic, John. Just leave her outside. I am certain she shall find _some _stray child to waste an hour with -"

"This isn't the bloody _fifties_!" John snapped, voice reduced to a resolute hiss, "There are no 'stray' children out there.._only _thieves and… child snatchers!" He was suggesting something from a movie. John sighed, deciding that he definitely _wasn't _the most clueless on children in this flat. _Thank heavens I wasn't at work today... _

Just the idea that Sherlock could have left her out there was enough to give him uncomfortable chills.

"Leave her at Mrs. Hudson's!" Sherlock cried out.

"_Can't. _She's in the Canary's…for some reunion or something. She's been gone a bloody _week_, Sherlock." John sighed, knowing he had explained this to Sherlock more than twice. It would have been useful for Mrs. Hudson to be here though.

A woman's instinct and all.

Sherlock produced an odd murmur too quiet for John to comprehend. It was probably a cross between a groan and some foreign swear word. He then continued his hike of uproar,

"I can barely _tolerate_ you at this second, John. How am I meant to tolerate _her_?"

Grace had lifted her head, silencing them both. She beamed, "I can be really quiet, you know. I'm not _horrible_. Not like _Angie_," The small girl rolled her eyes, "Angie's a _real _chatterbox. Not me!"

John met Sherlock's gaze again and he shrugged. "You're going to _have _to, I'm afraid," He conceded, "Sherlock... she's really behaved. You just - _solve _it as you wish...and we'll keep to our side of the room." He then gave him a long, reassuring stare, "Don't need me there right?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."

"Exactly." John, for some odd reason didn't feel as hurt by that as he would any other day.

"I'm super behaved." Grace grinned, nodding, "I _am _a detective inspector's daughter, after all."

"Yeah." John said, chuckling, "See, Sherlock? Not _every _kid, was like you mate." The insufferable attempt at a joke only seemed to grant Sherlock more chances to groan outwardly.

"_Ugh_, John. Please do not engage yourself in this _mate _business." Sherlock then sat up, rubbing his puffy eyes bleakly, "Why can you not _take _her somewhere then? I can provide _taxi _fare..."

"No." The doctor dismissed instantly, shaking his head, "_I _promised I would take care of her... and oddly enough, the safest place for her is the flat. There are f_ar _too many dangers out there." Just the idea of _losing _Lestrade's daughter was making John's throat feel a tad _tight. _

Sort of, strangulation tight.

The pale man across just scowled, evidently growing more frustrated as he surrendered the case,

"You _worry _too much, John...I remain surprised that you haven't _suffocated _the life out of your brain with all this... worry."

He spat the last word out before glancing at Grace with a grimace. John just rolled his eyes, knowing he had won.

"Look, Sherlock it's for an hour." He then gestured towards the brown envelope that had fallen on the floor, "Until then, there are lots to keep you busy."

Sherlock did not move. John glanced at Grace too and forced his over-the-top _doctor Watson _smile again,

"Found a game to play yet, Grace?"

"How about chess, Mr. John?" The girl pulled the box out with a giggle, "Would you mind playing a game?"

Impressed, John nodded, "Sure." It only dawned on him of course, as she was setting out the game on the carpet that he _failed _at chess. Glancing up at Sherlock who had began perusing over the various documents in the envelope, John inwardly swore.

"Smiling, John." Sherlock retorted from behind the papers.

The doctor quirked a brow, "Pardon?"

"_Smiling_, John," The detective repeated; John could already imagine the light smirk on his lips, "It is good for you; a smile often _aids _an injured morale."

"I won't injure my morale." The doctor murmured, "I can _play _chess." John could almost believe it himself as he watched the young girl arrange all the pieces and unload the chequered surface.

She was still in primary school. How _good _could she be?

"Just because one can play does not mean one can play _well_," Sherlock nodded, lowering the document forcefully before glancing at the blonde girl. Grace was busily arranging her side with a hum. "Are you good at this game?" He asked the girl softly.

Grace seemed to flush as she realized that the man was actually acknowledging her. "Oh, yes," She nodded actively, "Daddy taught me how."

"Of _course_, he did."

There was a slight playfulness in Sherlock's tone. A little concerned, John just dismissed the worry with a - well, a _smile. _He then awkwardly sat on the carpet and progressed with the game.

"Do you want to go first or shall I?"

Grace just pressed her lips primly, "You can. I don't mind."

John could not help but feel a little distressed by Grace's subtle confidence. But she was a _kid_, he reminded himself. _You went to the army. Did five gruelling years of MED school. You can survive a chess game... _

"I'll start if that's okay…"

* * *

><p>Seven minutes later and John was knocked speechless.<p>

"Checkmate!" Grace gushed, doing her routine of pretending that the pieces _gobbled _each other as they were taken off the board. John watched his king get entirely swallowed by the domination of the little girl's game.

"Grace." John managed, blinking - entirely stunned - "You're... _really _good at this game." If good was the word – she was _astounding. _The pace of the game had been extraordinary! She had scrutinized his every move in a heartbeat and had conquered him at every action.

He actually thought he was playing much better than all the other times he'd played. Unfortunately, John was completely overthrown.

"Ta," The blonde nodded, twisting a strand of her blonde hair, "I told you, so."

Still a little confused - if not a little disoriented, John leaned back and examined the girl. She was perfectly…well, _girly. _One would have never thought that she was so brainy! It was here that he heard Sherlock's deep, melancholy voice beckon to him from the couch beside,

"Lestrade was a _youth chess champion. _Represented the UK." Sherlock shared rather smugly. John looked up as the detective inspected a bunch of photographs.

The doctor was a little speechless. No wonder why Grace was so bloody good.

Sherlock seemed to have noticed the wordless interlude and nodded, "_Yes_, I know how you feel John. As if Lestrade's life could not become anymore _mind-numbing..._he becomes a _chess_ champion."

John was a little bit self-conscious when he realized that in his head, being a chess champion was a pretty _cool _thing.

_Damn you, John. Stop saying 'cool.' _

"Can we play another game, Mr. John?" Grace offered happily as she dipped into the box.

"Sure." John nodded, "Preferably not chess though."

"Oh, no," The little girl giggled charmingly, "We need to do something a _lot_ more challenging!"

He was sure she meant it politely but John could not help feel a little offended. Face a little red, the doctor blinked as he realized that there was a noise resonating from behind him -

The low, throaty laugh of one Sherlock Holmes.

_"Ha_, funny Sherlock." John snapped, feverish with embarrassment as he glanced at the papers that concealed the other man's face.

"Quite." The detective retorted before lowering the side of the papers down ever so slightly, "You should try _Guess Who_. John's standard of play is _shockingly _juvenile..."

John blushed even further and cleared his throat, trying to regain his position as the _ally. _Not the fool.

"Sherlock, go back to work." The man sighed, brusquely, "You've lost enough time with this nap of yours." John scratched his head, hoping it didn't look like he was covering up his _shame _with retorts. Hell. This was _embarrassment _at its peak.

_"Tsk_, John. Shame has always made you somewhat _vulgar_." Sherlock responded back fervently as Grace withdrew a new box. She brushed the slight covering of dust, revealing a title. John leaned in to read it:

"Ah, _Snakes & Ladders._" He forced a smile, "Hopefully I'll win this time, eh?"

Grace just smiled back, silent.

"What?" He blurted out sharply and if anything _tastelessly_, "Lestrade was a bloody champion at this too?" The moment the words slipped through his lips, John knew he had committed a faux pas. Such a massive one that his injured morale was having a spasm inside. _Fabulous._

There was a charged silence before Grace innocuously filled it,

"Um. I can start this time if you want." She offered harmlessly as she absorbed John's entirely glowing complexion, "Its okay, Mr. John…it's only a game." Grace beamed and toyed with the dice in her palm.

_Oh god_, "I know. Sorry. Yeah…let's…play." John nodded, feeling like slapping himself. First he was talking to himself. Now he couldn't play games properly, "Sorry... Grace. I - just. _Not _used to playing games..."

"That's fine." The small girl nodded kindly. Great. Now she was humouring him.

_I'm turning into bloody Sherlock._

Great. As if he couldn't get anymore socially _cockeyed… _he decided to turn into _Sherlock Holmes_ – the bloke who would happily tell you where your hands have been throughout the day… over lunch.

Fantastic.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: There we have it. Ah, I love finishing these chapters. Thanks for the reviews+alerts. They do mean an awful lot to a little authoress such as I. Now, I was intending this to be a simple, babysitting fic consisting of a few chapters. Now, this shall be a babysitting fic + an addition of a murder mystery as Sherlock is juggling solving the case and annoying John. **

**So yeah. Expect a lot of cameos as Sherlock + John continue to solve the case and it turns out that dear little Grace has some interesting contacts on her Blackberry Messenger list :DD Love always! Hope you're all dandy. **

**And to dinogeek - poor you! I... sadly have undergone similar treatment. My dad left me at my school - picking up the rest of my cousins/siblings though XD He said he got to the first roundabout, said _FIRETRUCK_ about fifty times and did a roundtrip XD Now I know who to base Lestrade on, hahaa. LESTRADE IS IN THE NEXT CHAPTER. So if you like to see a bit of stressed Greg... cling on.**


	3. Chapter 3

"Is it the _five _of hearts?"

Grace gawped at him, her small mouth suddenly resembling a large 'o' shape. She quickly glanced at her card, inspecting every detail of it trying to make sense of the deception. "Yes it is!" She gurgled joyfully, clapping her hands in a silent round of applause, "How do you do it Mr. John? You've done it five times and you've got it right every time!" Her little eyes were shiny with pure adoration.

John just tapped his nose and grinned, "You know the first rule of a magician, don't you?"

A pout appeared on the young girl's lips. "_Pleeease_," She pleaded, clasping her hands together in a praying position, "Mr. John don't be a spoilsport!" John just laughed at her face, shaking his head and adjusting the deck of cards again. It surprised him that only four minutes ago, they were deep into a game of Snakes & Ladders and now he was showing her the only magic trick he knew.

It really was the only one - Harry taught it to him once in their childhood. She was always afraid that he would be bullied in school and assumed that mystifying them was the best way to get a headstart when he ran away.

"Fine." The small girl nodded brightly, crossing her arms before pushing the deck of cards towards him again, "Can you do it again, though?"

The fact that she actually wanted to see his trick made John feel sort of nice inside. He must admit - the little girl was gradually growing on him. She wasn't even a headache - after the whole chess fiasco, she actually turned out to be rather clever. In his opinion, she was definitely the smartest kid he had ever met. Baby-sitting was definitely a lot more amusing than he thought it would be. For a little while, the stress of the murder case seemed to be overshadowed by the giggles the little girl produced.

"You okay, there Sherlock?" He asked his flatmate quickly as he turned back. Sherlock had positioned himself at the couch right at the back end of the room. They were located on the other side where they could not contaminate his _thinking space._ The detective merely lifted a hand in response, probably not even registering what he had said.

"Kay then, where were we?" Grace had propped up on the floor, giddy with excitement as he tenderly began to shuffle the deck of cards.

But then his phone vibrated in his pocket. Pausing and reaching for it, he read the number and stated,

"It's your dad."

* * *

><p>The moment Gregory Lestrade realized that there was no-one following him - he ran for it.<p>

For the whole morning, hounds of figures had surrounded him - words and actions exchanged in a flurry of incomprehensible jabs. People came by with phones, papers - _sir this _and _we need you here _that. The fact that he had not had any sleep for almost a day and had not eaten a good meal in god-knows-when was enough to assure him that if he did not leave now - it was _his _murder they would have to solve next.

The likelihood was of course that he had executed the murder himself as he was starving, sleepy, stressed and he was getting the aura of a pending migraine. Oh, and of course he had left his daughter in the care of Sherlock and Dr. John. Somehow, despite the fact that Sherlock was the smartest man he knew and John was a doctor - Grace being there did not make the chills in his spine go away. In fact, it probably made it worse. As a detective inspector, he was concerned for he was not sure if Sherlock could _work _with a seven year old there. And he needed this case done as soon as possible.

As a father, he was slaying himself.

Jogging down the outside of the headquarters, Lestrade aimed for the cafe down the road. He looked back and decided that they could survive five minutes without him. Just five. And then he could be played around with as they wished. He just needed another round of caffeine - possibly three. Maybe five. It was not even a matter of him wanting it - he _needed _it. He had sat through the meeting this morning with Donovan next to him - her only job to nudge him whenever he looked like he was going to drift off.

It was fair to say she had nudged him so many times that his ribcage was probably bruised. Taking out his phone and swallowing a little at the 'new messages' icon at the top, Lestrade chose to ignore that for the moment and see if his daughter had _BBM'd_ (he still, to this day could not work out how to do this and let Grace do this 'blackberry messenger-ing' stuff) him back. She hadn't. Finding John's number with a fumble, he pinned his phone to his ear and tried his best to seem _okay._

A few monotonous rings later.

_"Lestrade_," John. Good.

"John," He responded huskily, "How are things? How's Grace? Is she okay? Sorry I took so long - got busy -" It was only now that he realized he was rambling as his voice thinned into silence.

No words came for a second and Lestrade grew a little concerned.

_"She's fine_." Lestrade's breathing resumed.

"Good. Good. Thanks... again, firstly - how's Sherlock doing? Got anything I need to know?" Lestrade knew how Sherlock would probably be sulking now after the failure of his authorization. He knew there probably wasn't anything as Sherlock would text him if there was - _but _he was also renowned for occasionally withholding evidence without obligation. Sometimes, he needed a nudge.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Sherlock - anything?" John glanced at the detective and recieved a blunt shake of the head. Sherlock simply said, "It's <em>suffocation <em>not strangulation." Deciding not to put it to waste, he glanced at Grace who eagerly waited for her turn and returned his attention to the phone.

"Lestrade, Sherlock says its _suffocation. _Not strangulation."

There was a silence.

_"Is he sure? The pathologist has not done the full report yet - _"

Sherlock's voice rang out disturbing John's response -

"Of _course _I'm sure. It's obvious, isn't it? Tell him to sack Anderson." Sherlock returned to his work with a low mutter.

John cleared his throat stiffly and opened his mouth only to be reprimanded with a,

"_I heard. Right - well, I've got a meeting in twenty minutes. I'll send some more stuff then - toxicology screens should be ready then as well - _"

"Finally, Lestrade! It's about time!" Sherlock hollered loudly, rolling his eyes as John gave him a sharp glare. Although to be frank he sort of understood - tox screens were pretty important. If Sherlock needed something - he really needed it.

_"Yeah... just - tell him that I've got people sending more photographs down to you... and he asked me if the door was open when they found the Mullers? The door was open_.."

"The door was open, Sherlock?" John said, hoping that made sense and recieved a nod from the curly haired man in response.

"Fantastic. Oh, and tell Lestrade that when he becomes so sleep-deprived that he finds speaking a _task_," Sherlock paused and glanced up as he flickered the report he held with a brush of the finger, "He knows where to send a cab."

Cue a small, audible sigh from the leading detective inspector.

"_Tell Sherlock to keep working."_

"I give him three hours." The detective snapped back with a smirk, "Four if he indulges in caffeine."

There was a brief moment where John could almost imagine the detective inspector rolling his eyes in bemusement at Sherlock's words. It was here that he noticed little Grace still waiting patiently for her turn.

"Uh, Lestrade?" John poked in, "Mind if Grace gets a word?"

* * *

><p><em>"Mind if Grace gets a word?<em>"

Crossing the road, Lestrade suddenly found his interest returning. Bloody hell - Sherlock got on his temper sometimes. Especially when he was right. Three hours had to be a pretty gracious time to give him before he finally surrendered to insanity. He was barely comprehensible now.

"Please get her on the phone," He stated breathlessly. Out of the whole week - this had to be the day that Beth had to go into labour. As much as he liked seeing his daughter - the fact that she was _thrusted _towards him in possibly the busiest day of the most important case of his career... was probably something he'd much rather happened later.

But as a father, he was being a pretty crap one. Lestrade really should have gotten the hang of the custody matters now but with his work, he very rarely did fulfil the weekends he had to spend with her. He was surprised she still called him Daddy actually. Considering his ex wife's new _partner _seemed to be wearing the shoes better than he ever could.

"_Daddy_!" Her voice was enough to soothe the thoughts out of his mind and Lestrade found himself clinging onto the phone as he walked calmly down the pavement, _"Daddy where are you?" _

"Gracie ... god, Daddy is sorry. I had to leave - I - _are _you okay?" He swallowed, knowing that the men at the flat had probably never had any experience with children. He had no doubt that they were probably even worse than he was, "What have you been doing?"

_"Oh I'm great! It's really fun here! Mr. John is really funny... we've been playing with his board games!"_

Board games? John, played board games? Narrowing his eyes slightly, the man paused and shook his head, "Oh - good. You haven't done anything... er," Out of the ordinary? The fact that the flat always reeked of chemicals concerned him. "_Scienc-y_?" To put it in simpler terms.

There was a moment of quiet.

"_Um no? Mr. John was just showing me how to play cards!"_

"He was showing you how to gamble?" Lestrade blinked widely.

_"No!" _John's voice suddenly resonated, _"Just a magic trick Lestr - it's really cool daddy!" _Grace's voice took the phone again, _"I have to show you when you come by and pick me up!" _

"Oh...right. Sure, darling. Sure."

Lestrade was approaching the coffee shop now and his eyes were drawn to a man with - _good god. _The bastard was smoking. The smell in the air was as disgusting as he could remember but suddenly his blood vessels were _begging _for it. He had been all quits for a few months now (he had been trying a while but had failed a couple of times) and even with the patch still on his arm, the addiction was rousing.

Christ. He would love one. _Just one..._

Plus, wasn't it the best cure for stress relief? Lestrade found himself momentarily enthralled by the puffs of smoke as his mouth opened to ask for a quick whiff,

But then Grace's voice filled his head again,

_"I love you dad," _She murmured, "_Be safe._"

Those very words seemed to snap his attention back and he found himself smiling outwardly. Ignoring the symptoms of weakness, Lestrade maneouvred into the cafe,

"I love you too." He said with a rather pathetic, "I'm sorry I forgot you."

_"That's okay, daddy. I won't tell Mummy."_

Lestrade had to laugh. "Er, that'd be best." Beth had always worn the trousers in their relationship. Considering she had smacked him on the head this morning for suggesting that he was too busy to take Grace - he could only imagine what treatment he would get if she found out about this mess. Although knowing her, she probably would.

_"I know you're busy so - bye daddy. I'll BBM you when my phone is charged." _

"Thank you," The detective inspector found himself almost gasping in excitement at the smell of _food. _He was so used to the smell of papers, ink and _Blackberrys _that he had forgotten the comfort that coffee could give to a stressed police man, "Take care of yourself... please don't go outside... behave, okay?"

"_Okay._"

"And - if you get scared. You know the way home."

"_Um...I know how to get a cabbie!"_

"Close enough," Lestrade grinned and took a deep breath knowing this was probably going to be the last time he would hear her voice in a little while as he wasn't sure when he could interject another break, "Bye, Gracie."

"_Bye Greg._"

Chuckling, Lestrade held the phone and listened to the dead beeping for a second before switching off his phone entirely. Five minutes of peace. Just five.

The cafe was quiet - thankfully - which was good for his pounding head. Reaching the cashier, he ordered a cup of coffee and a - "Just a - that," Lestrade gestured lamely towards a lone muffin on the display. It looked like something he could eat in a bite but considering this was a locally owned shop and there wasn't much else to buy - it would do.

"That's two pounds eighty, then mate." The teenager on the till said as he glanced vacantly at him.

Head a little light, Lestrade nodded and grumbled as he reached for his wallet in his pocket. A crease formed on his forehead as he realized that the object - which was normally in its usual place was not _there. _The cashier looked at him with a blunt eyebrow as he concernedly began to pat his coat pocket to the back of his trousers,

"Sorry - I," Flustered and exasperated, he began to mumble, "I _seemed _to have... misplaced -"

"Here's a fiver. Keep the change."

A hand reached out from behind him and the cashier took the money dully, beginning to prepare his coffee. Lestrade, entirely red in the face turned and was met by the smirking face of one Sally Donovan.

Clamping his jaw tiredly, Lestrade took a large breath,

"You've come to _drag _me back." He retorted to the agent as she examined him.

"Yeah, they sent me out here. Apparently _no-one _is allowed to escape," Sally responded with a quirk of the head, "Especially the inspector in charge." The cynicsm in the way she spoke made Lestrade sigh.

The woman just watched him and then rolled her eyes lightly,

"Five minutes." She huffed out with crossed arms, "If you don't come willingly, I _will _testify that you held me against my will."

Lestrade managed a smile as he calmly sat on the table just by them.

"_Thank _you." He said graciously, rubbing weary eyes, "You're a life-saver."

"_No,_" Sally argued, "You are. I would have come down with something if I stayed in there any longer." She caressed her temples with a deep exhale as Lestrade's coffee was delivered. She then left the table to order herself one as well.

Left by himself, Lestrade decided that as long as he could keep awake - he may survive today. Oh, and as long as the commissioner didn't bloody visit. If he was here, he wasn't sure what time he'd eventually get home. _If _he would be allowed to. He had to beg for the chance yesterday.

Taking a bite of the muffin, Donovan returned.

"How is it?" She asked, popping down on the seat across him.

Swallowing sweetly, Lestrade took an amorous inhale, "Like an orgasm in the mouth."

Donovan just stared, bemused and with an eyebrow arched.

"_Sorry_," Lestrade apologized rubbing his face again as he repressed the urge to groan out loud, "I can't remember the last time I ate anything that _wasn't _rainbow coloured." To explain, he slapped the _Skittles _wrapper that Grace had given him this morning as she stated that he looked a bit hungry.

"Understood," she shrugged before taking a sip of her coffee, "Sir."

"Greg." Lestrade waved off, deciding they were off-duty.

"_Greg._ I have to say... 'bout the case we're not getting very far," Sally shrugged, "I mean. We've got a few ruffles of ideas here and there but - "

"But there are too many people who may want this family dead," Lestrade smiled as Sally blinked at him - like he had taken the words right out of her mouth. "I know," He told her feeling like his knees had gone weak as he consumed the warm coffee, "I wrote the report."

The agent smiled, "The motivation is worldwide." She lifted her steaming cup carefully, "They're sort of... the _t-rex_'s of the publishing world. Too much competition. Too much _money._"

Lestrade nodded, "I know... it could be some _assassin _for all we know."

* * *

><p>"At least we are certain that its not some untraceable assassin."<p>

Sherlock said as John put his phone on the table and glanced back at Sherlock who had stood up, musing.

"Pardon?"

"It's not an assassin. It says here in the early report that it's a suggestion." Sherlock's dull eyes flickered, "It _can't _be."

John came over to him and a photograph was shoved into his hand. It was a photograph of the dinner table. The Muller Family had been killed at the dinner table. All four figures were at the end of their meal when they were murdered. _Suffocated _as Sherlock had said.

"I told Anderson to take a picture - primarily to distract him from doing anything stupid but then saw this," The curly haired man conversed, pointing instantly at a fallen wine glass that had spilled onto the table.

"What do you see John?"

The doctor arched a brow. "Uh - it's a glass. That's fallen over."

"_Clumsy._"

Now, he wasn't following. "What?" John queried, watching Sherlock roll his eyes vehemently.

"_Clumsy_," he repeated, "It cannot _be _an assassin because the killer was clumsy... think of it, if you were to hire someone to murder a famous family - would you pick a shaky-fingered assassin?"

John was blank faced. Sherlock huffed, "I thought not."

"How do you know it couldn't have been the family? You know... they could have just not... cleaned it up." John suggested limply. Sherlock pressed his lips prudishly,

"Do you really believe that?"

"No." John admitted, "I just thought I should put it... out there."

"Realistically, the spilled wine is going to flow _right _into the lap of the person on the chair. I'm certain that they would have cleaned it up." Sherlock said coolly, "It's the killer."

"Okay, then." John shrugged, "No other explanations, I suppose."

"None. No-one else was in the room. Only killer and victims." Sherlock shrugged, "The killer knocked it over on their way out. They got nervous - probably a bit giddy after the kill... it is the glass of the one that was murdered last so they were obviously eager to leave...they probably leaned in a little too far _in _and then glass is knocked over."

"It could have been an accident," John tried again, before narrowing his eyes.

"Professional killers do not make accidents, John." Sherlock stated back.

"It could happen." John dictated.

"Yes, but wouldn't they clean it up?" The detective pressed his lips together, "The killer was too edgy. Too nervous. Even though there was nobody in the house... they were still _edgy. _The signature of a killer who has never _killed._"

Sherlock blinked, "Plus there was the door."

"What door?"

"The door was open." Sherlock was referring to the fact Lestrade had shared, "Come on, John. The first rule of assassination. You don't make it obvious. This person was an amateur... hysterical. Nervous. Probably after knocking the glass over - their heart rate hit its peak... suddenly, the only goal is to make it out without being seen. So, after the last kill they leapt out leaving - _door..._"

"Open."

"Yes."

John could almost see the scene being played out. "Wow. That's - that's still pretty grim," The man stated, "An assassin or not... there was still a murder. It's still... as bad."

"No," Sherlock rebuked, "It is better if it is not an assassin."

"Why?" John blinked.

"Because assassins are dull." The detective smirked, "They do it. They get paid. _Boring. _Plus... they leave ready for their next appointment. Most assassins are blank canvasses. If we had an assassin, we would not have a case. The murder would just be another murder on their never ending carousel of _murders._"

John blinked again.

"Boring." Sherlock perused in an almost sing-song tune, "John, our murderer is an amateur."

"So, they're probably only killing for this one instance and purpose?"

"Yes... so that narrows it down to people they must _know._ This 'get together' was personal - planned... not everyone can know. The murder, equally was planned. You can tell. One time at night that the family is together and there is no house staff inside - _genius_! Ah, amateurs." The detective sat back down on the couch, "Amateurs are much less efficient at disguising guilt."

"So, just... got to find a line of suspects then." John blinked, "Through the rather long list of people who probably hate them."

"Yes..." Sherlock snapped swiftly, "We do need to settle down on a specific round of suspects. Too many people want to kill this family - we _must _find out more about it... there is a specific motivation to this... not competition... not about the business..."

"It looks like its business, Sherlock," John laughed, "They're bloody trillionaires."

"It _can't _be."

"Why not?"

"Then they would have been murdered _years _ago. Why now?" Sherlock was growing frustrated at John's speed of thought.

"All four of them hold senior positions to the company, Sherlock." John shrugged, "Don't you think that's significant?" Surely, that was the best to wipe out a company. Kill all the bosses. Simple, enough. After all the son of the company's founder was the person who held pretty much the very inner workings of the whole worldwide running.

"Yes but there is this..." The detective then reached for a document on the couch behind him and held it up. It was the photograph of the son/brother-in-law. Dead. "This is Ben Kingsley. Found in an alley this morning. On his way home in Brighton." Sherlock clacked his tongue habitually, "He holds _no _share in the business."

Ah. "So, why is he dead?"

Sherlock smiled.

"Exactly."

"It could be a red herring, you know," John bit his lip, "Sort of. Keep us guessing."

"It could be," Sherlock agreed, "But even red herrings have a purpose. What must we guess? _What _are they hiding? And ..there is one tie between Kingsley and the Mullers."

"His wife - the daughter... and sister." John answered as Sherlock smiled again, inspecting the photograph thoughtfully.

"Yes. Ophelia Kingsley. Nothing about her here... must remember to search up on her." The detective paused as if discovering a new train of thought but did not share and continued. "But first," Sherlock nodded, "We must find out about _motives. _Why kill? Why Kingsley? -"

And then, in this brainstorm a visitor's voice erupted. Or rather it sounded like a visitor's voice as it had been so long since they heard it.

John turned and found his eyes widening as he realized that Grace was tugging at his shirt. "Oh - Grace - s-sorry," He apologized fervently, "We - I completely overlooked you there... _sorry._"

The little girl said nothing but looked up at him with considerable feeling. John was instantly concerned. And then she said two, hauntingly honest words.

"I'm _hungry._"

There was silence. And then Sherlock,

"Yeah. Actually John. I'm quite famished myself."

* * *

><p><strong><span>AN: **I am officially in Turin in a couple of hours but thought I should post this before I go. I should be back in a few days with more. Sorry for the italics - my head is a bit theatrical and it looks a lot like that. Anyway, thanks for the response as always. I'd like it if you do respond but just reading on is okay as well. Next is Grace rooting through the cupboards as she tries to find something to eat. But just some more information about the family that was killed in case you want to know: The company is called Muller's Publishings. They are a worldwide publishing company (of course) and the head of the company is the son of the founder. He was found dead with his brother and parents - the three are chief executives. All were found dead in their house in Berkshire - were killed during a get-together just for them (they are all located in different countries, so this is a time for all executives to have a family party!) They were found sitting on their chairs, suffocated over dinner (sad thing is they never quite finished). They were found about an hour after the murder as a family friend was calling all their phones and couldn't get through. Concerned, they went to the home and found them dead.


	4. Chapter 4

Since Sherlock was "busy" - John knew that as the unused forensic-assistant, it was his job to hunt for food.

And _hunt _was definitely the correct way to put it. There were various things he had to plunge through to find anything edible - and he had to perform this hunt every day. Fortunately, Sherlock had cleaned up his "science experiments" yesterday and had left the dinner table to be used _for _dinner. This meant there was a lack of Bunsen burners and microscopes and all sorts of scientific apparatus containing green, morbid sludge.

That did not mean however that there was any leftover food.

Without even pulling at a cupboard door, John knew that there was not going to be food anywhere. There never was for some odd, complex reason. Somehow, whenever he popped down to the shops and brought home a bag full of groceries - they would vanish entirely in a few days. He was fine with this, really. But what annoyed him was that he never quite knew where they went.

He had a hunch that half of the food went into Sherlock's "experiments" and the rest somehow fitted into the detective's bony frame.

Either way, John never asked. After all, who _knew _what Sherlock did to grapes? Or rather, who would _want _to know?

"No!" John almost bit his lip as he stumbled forwards; preventing Grace from pulling at the fridge door, "Don't look in there."

The young girl arched a brow, "Why?"

Because there might be a sodding human body part in there.

"It's broken." John lied, swallowing wearily, "Plus, we don't keep food in there."

"Oh," a breath slipped from Grace's lips as she skipped over to where he stood - purchasing the lie with a rather unconvinced grimace, "That's odd."

"Yes." John quickly began to pull at the various cupboard doors, revealing dusty shelves and the occasional quaint looking oatmeal box. He scratched his head and then rubbed his eyes.

"Anything?" Grace asked him sweetly as she fiddled with the microwave. The doctor shook his head thoughtfully, trying his best to garner his "adventurer" side. The scavenger inside of him. Of course after he realized that there was no physical way he could work with any of the things they had - John knew his adventurer side had all but vanished.

As if things could not get worse, he became aware of a slight 'hmming' noise.

"Mr. John?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"Are those... fingers in the jar?"

She was gesturing towards the lone bottle inside the microwave. John's eyes enlarged to the point of mortification. He gazed down at her and chuckled ruefully,

"Of _course_ not," He gushed heavily, snapping the microwave door shut, "They're just - er... pickled gherkins." Genius idea.

Grace pressed her lips cleverly together as she tried to see through his lie, "They didn't look like gherkins."

John was running out of words to keep him afloat. Luckily, Sherlock appeared (in impeccable timing) by the doorway. The man's eyes lit up (expecting to be salvaged from the sinking boat he manned) but the flame soon died as Sherlock gestured towards the kettle on the worktop with his head,

"Just coffee for me, thank you."

"Sherlock..." John tried to detain his temper as his face reddened, "_Please _tell me you kept some food somewhere."

The detective arched a confused brow, "Of course not, John. Where would I keep it?"

Just because John expected that answer did not mean that he was going to discontinue shoving the question.

"So you used _everything_?" He squeaked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"Not everything." Sherlock rolled his eyes and then diverted it back onto the doctor's face, "John - are you displeased with me?" The question was put forward so flippantly that John almost blew his casket.

Luckily, he managed to repress the rage with the breathing techniques Mycroft had been teaching him.

"_Yes_," John managed glancing at Grace who was musing fluidly at the "pickled gherkins" inside the microwave, "Because now - our visitor has no food." Sherlock - who looked as if he had just seen the little girl for the first time _again _pressed his lips together.

"Go get some, then." The detective retorted impatiently.

"I _always _get some."

"Then this should be effortless," Sherlock swept back into the living room, "There is no use in _whimpering_, John."

John gasped, aghast, "I am _not _whimpering!" Of course just by saying that seemed to pose a slight "whimper." Great. Taking another few, soothing breaths, the doctor returned to the girl who was still grinning as she had been moments ago.

Clearly, she had mastered the art of "killing one with kindness."

John knew that as the hunter - he would have to be the one to gather food.

Even if it meant lunging through the aisles of Tesco Express and making war with the self-checkouts.

* * *

><p>Grace was not quite sure why she was not allowed to come with Mr. John to Tesco's.<p>

She had explained it to him (quite dutifully) that she had been to a supermarket before. However, she noticed that Mr John seemed awfully raspy and breathless and so decided that quizzing him further would be bad for his _health. _Maybe he had ass-mar! Like Lance.

Ew. Lance. The thought of her mother's "boyfriend" - or "boy toy" as her dad calls him (although she was not sure what this meant exactly) - made her feel slightly queasy. Mr John was nothing like him! Although she barely knew Mr John - he was already a _gazillion _times more fun than _Loony Lance._

She called him Loony because he liked all these odd healthy gloop that her daddy said resembled vomit.

Her Mummy for some unexplainable reason pretended like she liked it (although Grace had seen her throw most bottles into the toilet). Either way, this was a much more fun place than Lance's house and her normal baby-sitter's. Her normal baby sitter being Mrs Kempshall.

Mrs Kempshall was _so _boring. All she ever talked about was gardening and _dogs_. And she always forgot what day it was _even _when Grace had reminded her about fifteen times! As far as she was concerned, Grace was totally recommending Mr John to all her friends at primary.

"So, yes. You should be fine here... I'm going to be about ten or fifteen..." Mr John was by the door now, hesitantly putting on his scarf, "Anything in particular you want me to get?"

"Not fussy." Grace grinned. After growing up with her Mummy and Daddy's cooking - she had moulded a pretty strong digestive system.

"Great. You'll be fine as long as you stay here, okay?" He grinned at her before glancing at Mr Sherlock. The smile seemed to fade.

Grace watched the two of them and giggled a little. She had not told them this but she had heard of them before. A lot of times before. It was normally when her Daddy was on the phone. Sometimes, she would see him grumbling on the phone and then when he would hang up he would do his _"ugh my life face_" (Mummy labelled this for her) and say,

_BeepBeep _(Grace had built up a good immunity against swear words) ... Sherlock.

Of course, it wasn't Daddy who did this normally. When Grace was left alone in her father's office, it was normally Auntie Sally who said Mr. Sherlock's name a lot. _Except _of course she didn't just say _beep. _

She said _BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPP BEEEPPP FREAK BEEEP SHERLOCK BEEEEP. _And then her Daddy would roll his eyes (accompanied with his "ugh my life face") and they would skip off to save London!

Grace wasn't sure if this was the Mr Sherlock they talked about. But it must be! Because there couldn't be _that _many Mr Sherlock's!

"Sherlock," Mr John was huffing, "I'm going now. Remember what you said, okay?"

"Yes, John." Mr Sherlock was reading his papers again - Grace noticed they seemed to have a million of them around, "_I'll _remember."

Mr John had made Mr Sherlock promise he would take care of her. Grace didn't mind. She wasn't sure what sort of trouble she could possibly get herself into in a flat. She was a good girl! That was why she always got five stars for her behaviour.

Duh.

"Bye Mr John!" Grace waved, as he smiled at her once more, "I'll sit here and be good."

"Please." He nodded, seemingly assured and then turned to his flat mate again, "You as well, Sherlock."

The small girl giggled playfully and crossed her legs as Mr. John disappeared.

There was a brief silence before Mr Sherlock seemed to _jump _off his couch and dash straight to his phone. Furrowing her brow a little as she watched him, the curly haired girl became aware of something _very _important.

"Mr Sherlock!" She cried out gleefully.

He ignored her for a moment.

"Mr Sherlock!" Grace repeated, innocently. Another second passed before grey eyes lifted up and narrowed at her,

"Yes?" He probed, expression aloof.

Grace was oblivious to it as she bounced up and down on the couch, pointing a finger at his phone.

"You have a Blackberry too!" She beamed, completely ecstatic at the revelation.

Mr Sherlock seemed to be a bit confused (Grace decided _old _people must be less _perceptive_ now that they were old) and the little girl found herself rolling her eyes. He didn't seem to happy with that either.

"Good observation." Mr Sherlock commented before returning to his typing.

Grace scowled, catching his attention again, "_Nooooo,_" The little girl uttered, exasperated, "You have a Blackberry... so I can use your charger to charge _mine_!" Her hand quickly produced her poor, dead phone in one hand.

And then Mr Sherlock seemed to stare, blankly.

The little girl decided that he must be like _Loony Lance. _He must not like people touching his things! Well, that was silly because Grace had elocution lessons from her Nana (grandmother) and she was not clumsy at all. She promised she wouldn't break it!

"Please, Mr Sherlock?" She urged with a wide smile.

"If you are willing to find it." He replied.

"Yay!" Grace cheered, elated, "I've found it!"

His lifeless eyes widened at her excitement and he gave her a look of disbelief,

"What?"

"It's behind you." Grace said with a sunny smile across her lips, "By that desk."

Eyeing him as he turned to the charger which lay on the wooden desk as she had said, Grace could not help but blush with pleasure as he turned his eyes back to her with a look of approval.

"_Very _good observation," He said with a nod, taking the electric charger and throwing it at her gently, "Help yourself."

Grace grinned and took it, deciding that Mr Sherlock was definitely _not _a "beep" like they said.

* * *

><p>Humming <em>'We're off to Meet the Wizard' <em>at a gentle volume, Grace waited patiently as her phone charged. Mr Sherlock seemed terribly busy and being exposed to such sights - she knew it was best to be quiet. She had been left in her Daddy's office before and she knew how important it was to be nice and calm sometimes! Even when it was so tempting to be loud.

As she was doing this however, she noticed that Mr Sherlock was not on the couch reading anymore. In fact, he was up and - putting on his coat! Was he going somewhere? Face forming a slightly perplexed look, the girl paused her hums and puffed out her cheeks.

It wasn't long before he turned his eyes to her in attention.

"So," Mr Sherlock told her with a narrowed look, "Are you going to be fine staying here by yourself?"

A slightly mortified look formed on Grace's face as she shook her head. "Absolutely not!" She gasped out loud, "Where are you going? Am I not allowed to go?" The idea that she was going to be left alone was soon diminished when Mr Sherlock handed her jacket over,

"It's quite chilly." He said simply, buttoning his own up.

Grace followed suit and quirked her head, "But, Mr Sherlock..." She trailed in question as she adjusted her coat.

"Yes."

"Mr John said not to go anywhere." Grace remembered being anchored to the flat as part of the treaty of her staying behind.

Mr Sherlock seemed to smile, giving her a soft wink, "John is rather boring sometimes," He remarked innocently, "_Plus_, he told _you _to stay here. If that is what you would prefer... I won't argue."

The young girl's eyes widened again, huffing as she buttoned up her jacket, "Absolutely not!"

"Good." Mr Sherlock nodded, waddling towards the door, "We won't be long."

"Should we leave a note or something?"

"Boring." Mr Sherlock dismissed.

Grace discerned quite comfortably that Mr Sherlock loved saying "boring" a lot. Perhaps that was his favourite word! Like she loved the word - float. "Are you sure?" She toddled after him obediently, "He might worry."

But Mr Sherlock did not hear her. He was already down the staircase! Following after him, head bobbing up and down in concentration, the little girl scratched her hair pensively.

"_Please _can we leave a note?"

"No time." Mr Sherlock grumbled as he slipped into his shoes.

"Can you at least text him?"

A little annoyed looking, Mr Sherlock turned to his phone and moved his thumbs.

"Done." He lied. Grace - being an avid texter - noticed the ploy instantly.

"Liar!" She accused, "If you don't text, I won't go!"

Mr Sherlock seemed to ogle her with such curiosity that it made the little girl's eyebrows knit together.

"Fine, _don't _go." He told her with a sniff of condescension as he made for the door. Grace huffed back with equal self-righteousness and positioned herself on the bottom step. She watched as he opened the door and turned back.

He was smiling. "You can change your mind_._" Mr Sherlock tutted.

Grace shook her head resolutely, crossing her arms to highlight the image. She then heard the door produce a loud thud as it closed.

Sitting in silence for a few moments, Grace tapped her foot rhythmically on the carpet below. She knew this game very well - her parents did this _all _the time. It only took a few brief seconds and then -

The door opened.

"John. Popped out. Don't worry."

A screen containing those exact words was then displayed in front of her. "Happy?" Mr Sherlock exhaled as she propped up, smiling again. Grace sauntered off towards the door, her coat swishing behind her. She was very happy indeed! Now Mr. John doesn't have to get mad.

She knew he would text; the _'i won't go' _ploy worked every single time.

* * *

><p>John was sure he had never had a grocery shop finished so quickly. Normally, he grew busy deciding which brand of toilet rollwashing powder to buy so time was wasted on mundane areas. This time his strategy was very simple:

Grab and buy.

And if he had to say so himself - the strategy _worked. _Well, he hadn't bought too many things - just a frozen pizza that they could pop in the oven. A tub of ice cream. _Strawberry pencils_? (those were accidental... they fell in) - microwave popcorn (he always bought this as watching Sherlock's face as the popping noise began was priceless) - a pack of apples and strawberries. A pack of dark chocolate. Bag of Doritos.

He even got a DVD from the "Summer Disney Sale."

Reaching the top of the steps, John had to smile about his efforts. Because he did pretty damn well. Opening the door, he found himself flexing his arms as he waddled into the kitchen with a rueful grin. Beginning to unload the various groceries, it only took John two more seconds of oblivious unpacking to realize that he was _alone._

Alone.

They were _gone._

Panic. The panic button inside of him did not just vibrate. It _exploded. _"GRACE!" He burst into the living room, "SHERLOCK?" There was only papers. Papers and - damn. Sherlock's coat was missing. That meant they had most definitely gone.

Damn it. He was gone twenty or so minutes. And now they were just - gone.

Even though he _specifically _asked - ugh. John moaned out loud as he slapped his forehead. Someone _hated _him up there. Really. Somewhere in the clouds - there was some bastard who wanted to make the simple periods of his overcomplicated life... hellish.

Checking his phone, there was one message sent about fifteen minutes ago:

**_From: [10:59] Sherlock H. _**

_John. Popped out. Don't worry. - SH._

Don't worry?

John wasn't sure what he should do now. After sending an array of texts stained with abuse and colourful language - the doctor plopped down on the couch and took a long, gritty breath.

He closed his eyes. In his head, Sherlock was being _perfectly _behaved and Grace and him were _perfectly _safe. After all - Sherlock could just be -

Christ. Who the hell was he kidding?

Best just prepare himself for another court case.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Written this in my holiday. Thanks for the response as usual! I do love you all who review and alert/favourite. More fluffyshtuff/crimeywimey stuff later. Thanks so, so much. Hope you enjoyed this as I certainly enjoyed writing it.


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